Beyond the Circle
May 7, 2001
Mark Sabourin
Beyond the Circle
The circle is a place and a state of mind.
Every 4 minutes, a routemaster bus goes the half-mile around the park. Poor civic planning caused this anomaly.
Beside the mailbox lives a poor soul. He has spent his entire life at 22b Victoria Circle.
The ladder came down. Winston Jones went up, dragging his tall thin body, rung by rung, this middle aged man was in very sorry shape. A clump of thin hair on his head, wearing his father’s old suit, shoes and ties.
His attic was full of interesting objects, rare antiques, jewels and momentos.
The transients came to the circle in search of peace, stability and escape. Most left after a few days, Winston’s parents were quite jet set. They were so worn out and stressed that they became trapped in the doldrums of life here. In this surreal hamlet, they bore their sole child, they schooled him at home and told him tales of deceit and sorrow. Winston learned only of the evils outside, never of the beauties. He has never left the roundabout.
Winton was feverishly looking for the most important thing in the attic, his sole living companion, Fluffy the cat. He was dismayed to not find the cat (who was given to Winston as a kitten) in his box. He searched through cardboard boxes, only to find albums of photos of his parents long ago. When they were younger, they skied in the “Alps”, where Winston senior broke his leg.
He lost his parents 5 years ago. They had been on the way to a doctor “A terrible person, who heals your wounds by hurting your pocketbook” as his parents had called them. His father’s heart was going and his mom was having dizzy spells. No one knows what happened to them. No one told Winston what happened outside the circle. They never returned. It devastated him incredibly.
After meticulously searching under the carpet, Winston concluded that his 7-room flat did not contain a cat. He could not call for help. There were no means of communications anywhere in the flat (no corrupt media in this house).
Time was measured in passing busses. It had little meaning to Mr. Jones. There were endless days without significant events.
Passing the front window brought back torrential memories.
As a child, Winston gazed out upon the frontier. He saw hordes of people. They were all terrible, hateful people. He saw a tower, it was dark and ominous. Was it the castle of a witch? He was afraid to find out. After that moment, he vowed never to step out of his surreal comforting dome.
The people and the spire were still there. In the distance, he could see a tail, it was the cat leaving the park, and heading right for the road.
It was a cold November day, 4 years ago. Winston was taking Fluffy out for his daily walk. It was quite an ordinary day, wet and foggy. Thankfully there wasn’t a typhoon (it has never before happened within the circle, but is quite common, he knew, in the tropical regions outside of it). There was a young woman sitting on the bench in the center of the park. She was sketching birds and trees in these peaceful surroundings.
Sandra came to visit the circle every day for several weeks. She was the first Winston ever met that gave him hope. She spoke not of terror and pain, as did the other transients, but rather of the joy and wonder to be seen outside and within this round prison.
Fluffy crossed the road; he snaked by a lorry. He was luckier than Sandra.
A royal mail truck hit Sandra while she was leaving the circle to buy some canvas. She was taken to a hospital, and was never to return.
Winston’s cat was the last thing on earth that he could trust. Winston lived on the only green patch of this dark planet, he knew this to be true from past experiences. He went to the attic, grabbed skis, jewels, a bathing suit, and a change of undergarments. He put on his parka (in case of a blizzard), a life jacket (in case a monsoon washed out the road) and plenty of disinfectant (fearing disease and pestilence). He went down the stairs, and began walking around Victoria Circle.
At a fast gait, he passed the antique shop, where he sold shiny objects for large sums of money, the small market, where he bought nearly everything, and finally the bus stop. He hopped on the double-decker, skis under his armpit, paid his fare and rode around the park. It was lush with trees and shrubs, covered in paths and it had but one bench.
In the park, three years ago, Winston gazed into the trees. How, he asked, could the birds that have flown in from outside be so cheerful? Their world was one of misery, yet they chirped continuously.
He met a great variety of people on that lone bench, all seeking tranquility. Some didn’t talk, yet others aroused his suspicion. They spoke of terrible things: robberies and murders, abuse and drunkenness, politics and insanity. That was why so many people came to the circle.
He never wanted to experience such things; he became locked into his hole, doomed to stay.
That day, for the first time, Winston did not ride around in a circle, he gathered the courage to get off at the unknown road. He had to cross 4 lined lanes, on a yellow path, he hoped to be as lucky as the cat. He walked slowly and stopped in the middle of the third lane, a red car running towards him. Courteously, it stopped and waited for the pedestrian. Winston traversed the street. He had fallen out of orbit and entered reality.
The birds were chirpier on this grand avenue, the clouds rolled away, the people were cheerful and friendly. “Fluffy”, he cried out, as he searched for his misplaced feline. In a corner, beside someone’s picket fence, Fluffy had found a partner, a stray, collarless cat. The world wasn’t all bad. He continued down the street, at the end of the block, he paused and stared into the vast, vibrant expanse.
Beyond the Circle lay a Square.
Epilogue
Winston loves to explore the world that he no longer fears. He continues to live at 22b Victoria circle, St. Peter’s church in the distance. He is no longer imprisoned. His space is shared with his parent’s old furniture, his 2 cats, 3 kittens and lovely wife (all healthy).
He enjoys spending days watching people on the terrace of an Oxford Square café. Winston sits and writes poems about the interesting folk, and Sandra makes sketches of them.
Mark Sabourin
Beyond the Circle
The circle is a place and a state of mind.
Every 4 minutes, a routemaster bus goes the half-mile around the park. Poor civic planning caused this anomaly.
Beside the mailbox lives a poor soul. He has spent his entire life at 22b Victoria Circle.
The ladder came down. Winston Jones went up, dragging his tall thin body, rung by rung, this middle aged man was in very sorry shape. A clump of thin hair on his head, wearing his father’s old suit, shoes and ties.
His attic was full of interesting objects, rare antiques, jewels and momentos.
The transients came to the circle in search of peace, stability and escape. Most left after a few days, Winston’s parents were quite jet set. They were so worn out and stressed that they became trapped in the doldrums of life here. In this surreal hamlet, they bore their sole child, they schooled him at home and told him tales of deceit and sorrow. Winston learned only of the evils outside, never of the beauties. He has never left the roundabout.
Winton was feverishly looking for the most important thing in the attic, his sole living companion, Fluffy the cat. He was dismayed to not find the cat (who was given to Winston as a kitten) in his box. He searched through cardboard boxes, only to find albums of photos of his parents long ago. When they were younger, they skied in the “Alps”, where Winston senior broke his leg.
He lost his parents 5 years ago. They had been on the way to a doctor “A terrible person, who heals your wounds by hurting your pocketbook” as his parents had called them. His father’s heart was going and his mom was having dizzy spells. No one knows what happened to them. No one told Winston what happened outside the circle. They never returned. It devastated him incredibly.
After meticulously searching under the carpet, Winston concluded that his 7-room flat did not contain a cat. He could not call for help. There were no means of communications anywhere in the flat (no corrupt media in this house).
Time was measured in passing busses. It had little meaning to Mr. Jones. There were endless days without significant events.
Passing the front window brought back torrential memories.
As a child, Winston gazed out upon the frontier. He saw hordes of people. They were all terrible, hateful people. He saw a tower, it was dark and ominous. Was it the castle of a witch? He was afraid to find out. After that moment, he vowed never to step out of his surreal comforting dome.
The people and the spire were still there. In the distance, he could see a tail, it was the cat leaving the park, and heading right for the road.
It was a cold November day, 4 years ago. Winston was taking Fluffy out for his daily walk. It was quite an ordinary day, wet and foggy. Thankfully there wasn’t a typhoon (it has never before happened within the circle, but is quite common, he knew, in the tropical regions outside of it). There was a young woman sitting on the bench in the center of the park. She was sketching birds and trees in these peaceful surroundings.
Sandra came to visit the circle every day for several weeks. She was the first Winston ever met that gave him hope. She spoke not of terror and pain, as did the other transients, but rather of the joy and wonder to be seen outside and within this round prison.
Fluffy crossed the road; he snaked by a lorry. He was luckier than Sandra.
A royal mail truck hit Sandra while she was leaving the circle to buy some canvas. She was taken to a hospital, and was never to return.
Winston’s cat was the last thing on earth that he could trust. Winston lived on the only green patch of this dark planet, he knew this to be true from past experiences. He went to the attic, grabbed skis, jewels, a bathing suit, and a change of undergarments. He put on his parka (in case of a blizzard), a life jacket (in case a monsoon washed out the road) and plenty of disinfectant (fearing disease and pestilence). He went down the stairs, and began walking around Victoria Circle.
At a fast gait, he passed the antique shop, where he sold shiny objects for large sums of money, the small market, where he bought nearly everything, and finally the bus stop. He hopped on the double-decker, skis under his armpit, paid his fare and rode around the park. It was lush with trees and shrubs, covered in paths and it had but one bench.
In the park, three years ago, Winston gazed into the trees. How, he asked, could the birds that have flown in from outside be so cheerful? Their world was one of misery, yet they chirped continuously.
He met a great variety of people on that lone bench, all seeking tranquility. Some didn’t talk, yet others aroused his suspicion. They spoke of terrible things: robberies and murders, abuse and drunkenness, politics and insanity. That was why so many people came to the circle.
He never wanted to experience such things; he became locked into his hole, doomed to stay.
That day, for the first time, Winston did not ride around in a circle, he gathered the courage to get off at the unknown road. He had to cross 4 lined lanes, on a yellow path, he hoped to be as lucky as the cat. He walked slowly and stopped in the middle of the third lane, a red car running towards him. Courteously, it stopped and waited for the pedestrian. Winston traversed the street. He had fallen out of orbit and entered reality.
The birds were chirpier on this grand avenue, the clouds rolled away, the people were cheerful and friendly. “Fluffy”, he cried out, as he searched for his misplaced feline. In a corner, beside someone’s picket fence, Fluffy had found a partner, a stray, collarless cat. The world wasn’t all bad. He continued down the street, at the end of the block, he paused and stared into the vast, vibrant expanse.
Beyond the Circle lay a Square.
Epilogue
Winston loves to explore the world that he no longer fears. He continues to live at 22b Victoria circle, St. Peter’s church in the distance. He is no longer imprisoned. His space is shared with his parent’s old furniture, his 2 cats, 3 kittens and lovely wife (all healthy).
He enjoys spending days watching people on the terrace of an Oxford Square café. Winston sits and writes poems about the interesting folk, and Sandra makes sketches of them.
posted by Marsab at 3:15 PM
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that's wondahful
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